Windsor. A Room in the Castle.
	Flourish.
	Enter BOLINGBROKE and DUKE OF YORK, with other LORDS and ATTENDANTS.

Bolingbroke		Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear
		Is that the rebels have consumed with fire
		Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire;
		But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.

                          Enter NORTHUMBERLAND.

		Welcome, my lord. What is the news?

Northumberland		First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness.
		The next news is, I have to London sent
		The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt and Kent.
		The manner of their taking may appear
		At large discoursd in this paper here.

Bolingbroke		We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains,
		And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.

                             Enter FITZWATER.

Fitzwater		My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London
		The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely,
		Two of the dangerous consorted traitors
		That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.

Bolingbroke		Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;
		Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.

              Enter HARRY PERCY with the BISHOP OF CARLISLE.

Harry Percy		The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,
		With clog of conscience and sour melancholy,
		Hath yielded up his body to the grave;
		But here is Carlisle living, to abide
		Thy kingly doom and sentence of his pride.

Bolingbroke		Carlisle, this is your doom:
		Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
		More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;
		So as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife;
		For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,
		High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.

              Enter EXTON, with ATTENDANTS bearing a coffin.

Exton		Great king, within this coffin I present
		Thy buried fear. Herein all breathless lies
		The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,
		Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.

Bolingbroke		Exton, I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought
		A deed of slander with thy fatal hand
		Upon my head and all this famous land.

Exton		From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.

Bolingbroke		They love not poison that do poison need,
		Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead,
		I hate the murderer, love him murderd.
		The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,
		But neither my good word nor princely favour.
		With Cain go wander through the shades of night,
		And never show thy head by day nor light.
		Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe
		That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.
		Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,
		And put on sullen black incontinent.
		I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,
		To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.
		March sadly after; grace my mournings here
		In weeping after this untimely bier.
													[Exeunt.
